Continuum
by karaokegal
Summary: Vaughn and Jack smut using the dreaded cliche of pain turning to pleasure.


When had pain turned into pleasure?

Michael didn't know and wasn't sure it mattered. There'd been too much thinking; too much grieving. Syd was gone. No leads, no hope, no nothing. Just the bleakness of a future where he'd never see her smile or hear her laugh again.

He couldn't go back to work without seeing the pain reflected back in the faces around him. Marshall, Dixon and Weiss were all hurting as well. They'd each tried to get through. Calls went unanswered and doors unopened. Even Weiss had given up, trusting that Vaughn would find his own way back from the anguish.

Only Jack, who barely trusted him to do anything, had seen fit to show up at his apartment, making short work of what should have been a top-notch CIA security system, one he'd probably had a hand in developing anyway.

"Get out," had been followed by a hostile, semi-drunken obscenity-laced tirade blaming Jack for being a lousy father.

Vaughn could tell by Jack's stricken expression that he was going way beyond too far, but he couldn't stop himself.

"If you'd been there for her, none of this would ever have happened."

That earned him a hard blow to the face, resulting in blood and momentary shock. Due to the shock, he didn't realizing what was happening until Jack was standing inches away, icy gray eyes forcing him to look back, and then as though it was perfectly natural under the circumstances, kissing him on the lips.

Vaughn had never suspected any such tendencies in Jack or himself, but there didn't seem to be much sense arguing. Jack's hands were holding the back of his head, pulling him farther into the kiss, seemingly uninterested in Vaughn's reactions, which were in order, _What the hell,_ followed by _not bad_ and _Oh god, please don't stop!_

By this time, he was the one pressing for more contact, opening his mouth to let Jack's tongue enter the same way he'd come into the apartment. No resistance whatsoever.

_Time out,_ he thought.

This was about a hundred different kinds of wrong, including the fact that he seemed to have gotten instantly hard. That hadn't happened to him since puberty, not even with Syd. Jack had a lot of presence, an aura even, but this was just….

"Jack," he managed to get out before his brain froze.

"You talk too much, Agent Vaughn." They were the first words Jack had spoken since arriving. "Don't talk and for god's sake, don't think."

"We can't do this."

"Evidence to the contrary."

Jack pressed his pelvis against Michael's, making it clear that he wasn't the only one aroused by the situation. Could it be that easy? Two hard cocks canceled out years of mutual suspicion verging at times on outright loathing, just because they'd both lost the most important thing in their lives?

_No,_ he thought. _No. No. No. No._

This wasn't him and it certainly wasn't Jack, even if it was Jack's hand at his crotch, insistently rubbing Vaughn's erection through his jeans.

"Please," was all he managed to say.

Jack was so close that Michael could smell both a hint of alcohol and a trace of cigarette smoke. The idea that Jack smoked was almost as shocking as what was unfolding now. Who knew that Jack Bristow was a human being? Syd had known. She'd been willing to defend her father for what appeared indefensible, but Vaughn had been too caught up in his own ideas for protecting her. Or maybe it wasn't Syd they'd actually been fighting over after all.

Somehow it was Jack who knew what Michael needed. Here and now. On the same couch where he'd lain snuggling and daydreaming with Sydney.

_Don't think._

He repeated the order to himself. Jack was good at giving orders and Michael was good at taking them. "Get out of those clothes."

Had he actually been wearing any? Jack's voice and touch left him feeling naked, but on closer examination he was still dressed in Levi's and a NY Islanders jersey. They came off quickly, along with the briefs he'd been wearing underneath. Jack was still completely covered in a suit and therefore the better part of his dignity, leaving Vaughn feeling even more vulnerable, his entire body fully visible to Jack's gaze.

If he was expecting any remark of appreciation or approval, he was quickly reminded that this was still Jack Bristow he was dealing with.

"Turn around."

He'd have to content himself with a certain tell-tale hoarseness in Jack's voice.

From behind, came sounds of disrobing, including a zipper, which made his legs tense and his balls tighten.

"Hands behind you, please.

"What," Michael blurted, even as he was complying. The menace of the words was actually enhanced by the civility.

"This might be somewhat painful," Jack replied matter-of-factly, yet Michael found his tone oddly soothing. "A little restraint can be helpful."

"You know a lot about this, don't you?"

"Enough to know what I'm doing, which is apparently more than you do. You'll have to trust me. Do you trust me, _Michael._"

He couldn't say for sure that Jack had ever used his first name. The word sent a jolt of electricity through him and he knew that no mattered what happened next, that yes, he did trust this man, with his life and certainly with his body.

No one had ever tied him up, at least not for sexual purposes. It had happened too many times in situations of danger for him to ever think it might be a kink. Until he felt silk binding his wrists together and knew for a fact, it was Jack's tie. Vaughn could have gotten out of those knots, or at least he'd been trained to escape from them.

Escape was currently the last thing on his mind. Coherent thoughts might have been useful, but Jack had forbidden thinking, so he gave up, and let everything come down to what he could feel.

Strong, warm hands on his ass, caressing, and firmly positioning.

He was on the couch, open and exposed, expecting…well, he wasn't sure what to expect, but presumably Jack knew what he was doing. There had to some kind of preparation right? Lubricant? Fingers? Something more than the ominous slide of skin against skin and Jack's ragged breath in his ear. Jack was behind him, pushing slowly, relentlessly. Within seconds, every pain he'd known in his life, from his father's death to the last beating he taken in the field had been reduced to a memory of slight discomfort.

Michael used the cushions to muffle the scream that was building up to go along with the feeling of something unspeakably large trying to break him apart, inch by torturous inch. Had Syd screamed like this in the fire? Was she being tortured somewhere right now? Did he have to go through this because he couldn't save her? He was vaguely aware of the tie cutting into his wrists as he strained against the knot, finding as Jack has promised a slight relief in that part of the experience versus the central, over-riding, gut-wrenching agony.

There were tears in his eyes for Syd and for himself and even for Jack, but he wasn't screaming anymore. Jack's cock had fully entered him and the pain had turned to pleasure. The burning in his ass. Cock throbbing. Wrists tingling. Blood on his face. Even the ache in his heart that had been Sydney for so many months.

Nothing hurt and nothing mattered, except Jack's cock inside him, moving in and out, finding an angle that must be hitting his prostate, making every thrust a ticket to heaven and hell at the same time. He didn't know how much he could take or how much Jack needed, but it wasn't his decision to make. Jack was taking care of everything now, and that was good enough.

He came hard and sloppy, begging for more, and for Jack to keep going, offering up his own harsh words in return until he pushed inside one last time, shuddering and for those few seconds Michael Vaughn felt closer to another human being than he had since his father died.

He didn't know which was worse; Jack pulling out or untying his wrists.

Too numb to protest either, he let himself be pulled gently away from the couch and to his own bedroom. He lay down gingerly on one side, closing his eyes. Maybe he drifted off or maybe the whole thing had been a dream. If it was, he'd need an appointment with a very good therapist, _not_ one in the employ of the CIA. That would be an interesting first session, especially when he got to the part, where a casually, apparently comfortably naked Jack Bristow was actually cleaning him off and examining his wrists.

One-way ticket to a locked ward. Maybe Weiss would visit him from time to time.

He owed Weiss a call, several actually. Just how long had he been wallowing in self-pity anyway?

"Any new leads?" he asked, which might seem incongruous, but Jack clearly wasn't surprised.

"Some. We'll discuss them tomorrow at the office."

Jack's coolest, most professional voice. Vaughn doubted he'd be hearing his first name again any time soon, or ever.

"Why?" he asked, needing an explanation.

A curtain had fallen on that moment, the brief space of time when Jack was willing to be open instead of hiding behind his mask.

"Please," he begged, exactly has he had for Jack to fuck him.

Jack sighed.

"I wanted to. I have for a long time."

Vaughn watched Jack walk away and heard the sounds of clothing being picked up in the living room. Jack was leaving. This would never happen again.

He wasn't sure when the pain had turned into the pleasure, but he'd always know the exact moment it turned back.


End file.
